The muffled sounds of gunshots forced Burt to stand in the stirrups to listen. Then more popped. His hand went for his six-gun. The Colt in his grasp, he waved them on. “Hell’s broke loose up there. Let’s ride.”
He gouged the dun in the ribs with his heels and sent him barreling down the dry side of the river. He could hear the others coming on his heels. One-Eye broke out of the brush and joined him.
“Plenty shooting!” the Apache shouted.
“Sounds like it.” Burt urged the horse faster, and they broke out into the open country.
The loose horses were panicked and running in all directions to escape. Burt could see gunsmoke coming from a grove of trees. The rustlers were shooting in the other direction—obviously at Grimwell and his men. Burt tried to catch sight of the shooters and came within inches of colliding with a loose horse. Wild-eyed, the runaway bolted aside only inches from the collision.
“Look, Burt, over there.” One-Eye pointed over his shoulder, then fought with his own spooked horse, which wanted to leave with the rest of the loose ones.
For an instant, Burt saw the girl look back as she ran toward the cedars. A white girl—then a curtain of boiling dust cut her from his vision.
“Go, Deuces! Run!” her shrill voice screamed over the noise of gunshots and stampeding horses.
Rustlers or not, Burt needed to catch her before she escaped. He swung the dun around and charged through the undecided loose horses and dust. Out of the fog, he saw her legs flashing less than a few yards from reaching the sanctuary of some dense cedars. This had to be the lost girl. He gave the dun the rein to charge after her.
Where was Deuces? He must be close.
The hard report of a rifle echoed over the land, and the girl broke her stride as if someone had punched her in the back.
“No!” clogged Burt’s throat as he headed the dun toward her. “Don’t shoot! She’s only a girl!”
She spilled facedown and rolled. Burt drew his dun down on its hind legs in a skidding halt and bounded out of the saddle before it fully stopped. He could see the crimson seeping from the spot on the back of her checkered blue dress. Gently, he lifted her into his arms and turned her over. The bullet had exited below her breast, and the scarlet wound looked vast.
“Deuces—run,” she mumbled, and coughed. Blood ran from the corner of her mouth. The muscles in her body gathered. She blinked her fading eyes.
“He—hear me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he managed to say, holding her. Never before had he felt so helpless; he shook his head to try to clear the guilt.
“Good—” Then, as if she was satisfied, her blue eyes turned blank, and the once strong body went limp in his arms.
Struck down by her death, he bowed his head and dropped onto his knees. “Oh, God, why her?”
With care, he placed her body on the ground, swept off his hat, and tried to organize his mind about what he should do next. His fingers trembled when he reached out and closed her eyelids.
One-Eye joined him. Squatted in his moccasins, he looked at her and nodded his head. “Bad thing.”
“Real bad.”
Burt turned and saw Schumaker balancing the rifle on his knee. Why had he—her own stepfather—shot her? His first urge was to blow the hard-eyed German to kingdom come.
With his anger boiling over, he rose to his feet to confront the ruthless man. “Why in the hell did you shoot her?”
“She vas a slut! Unpure!”
Out of nowhere, One-Eye was in Burt’s face, blocking him from doing anything. The scout’s good eye was narrowed in warning, and his strong hand was on Burt’s gun arm. “Don’t—not that way.”
“I won’t shoot the son of a bitch,” Burt said in a soft voice. “The law can deal with him.”
“They got the rustlers.” The scout tossed his head toward the lawman approaching with three men in custody.
“Good. You have a look-see beyond those cedars. Deuces was here with her a few minutes ago. Best I can guess, they got caught in the middle of these rustlers’ horse stampede and our pursuit.”
One-Eye nodded and stood back. “Yes, they must have. I look around, you stay here.”
The scout hesitated as if he dared not leave—not yet.
“I’ll stay. I’ll be fine,” Burt said to reassure him.
One-Eye turned and began to wave Schumaker away. “You better ride over by the sheriff.” The scout pointed for the man to leave.
“What happened here?” Grimwell asked, looking concerned about the girl on the ground.
“Schumaker shot her.”
“I thought she was one of the rustlers!” the farmer shouted.
Burt shook his head in disgust and went for his dun horse. He caught the reins and led the horse back down the hillside. All he wanted was to be alone for a few minutes. This wasn’t like the days before—he couldn’t go around pistol-whipping people he hated—he had a marshal’s badge to uphold. He noticed two of the posse men busy wrapping her body in a blanket. The short sheriff came over to where Burt stood.
“What’s your side of this?”
“You’re the law here. I wanted to capture her to find out where the escaped scout was—” Burt exhaled and shook his head for composure. “That madman shot her in the back. She had no weapon. Offered no armed resistance. Hell, I’d’ve run, too, in all the confusion of those stampeding horses and gunshots.”
“What do you say it was?”
Burt looked Grimwell in the eye. “It’s your call. I’m a visitor here. I’m trying to capture an escaped federal prisoner. I know what I’d do if I didn’t have this badge.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d blow that son of a bitch to kingdom come.” Burt felt his heart surge in his chest until it hurt. “But he’s lucky today.Today I’ve got the weight of this star holding me back.”
“I would say so. I’ll turn him over to the grand jury. That good enough?”
“Fine.” He felt the urge to join his scout. One-Eye might have Deuces cornered up there somewhere. He shook the lawman’s hand and excused himself. In the saddle, he booted the dun up the hillside, grateful to escape the situation.
He waved after he heard the lawman’s loud thanks and rode for the crest. He never wanted to see Schumaker again—not ever. The dead girl’s youth and beauty haunted him, and he knew they would for several days more. Her sincere concern for Deuces’s safety had been so obvious. Shaken, Burt ducked a cedar bough. Next, they needed to find him.
Chapter 18
ON HIS MOVE TO ESCAPE CAPTURE, DEUCES NEVER returned to their camp. Amidst the dust and confusion, he had seen him among the others. The rider wearing the unblocked hat. Though he did not recognize the one who wore it, he knew quite well he was an Apache. Someone to track him. He had heard the report of the rifle that struck her and felt the bullet as if it had struck his own chest. He’d also seen her stepfather sitting on the black horse with his smoking gun.
Why kill her? Running full tilt, he leaped from boulder to boulder to leave no tracks for the Apache to follow. Perhaps her stepfather shot her so she could not tell them of his incest. The images of the man and his gun only sped his flight. Her killer would pay—pay dearly for his treachery. Even if it meant his own capture, this one without a soul would pay.
He ran with the wind, keeping in the cover of the live oaks, then doubling back so he could observe any pursuit. He never feared a white man finding his tracks—but an Apache was different. How long had this cousin been after him? Everything happened so fast; the rustlers had hidden several head of horses in that basin.
He and she went there to see about stealing some fresh, powerful ones from that herd. The mare and the bay were sound enough, but for the long ride back to Apacheria, he wanted three strong ones so their flight would be swift. They left camp on foot to scout the choices.
With a riata over his shoulder to rope some great horses from the herd, he looked forward to the adventure. Her eyes sparkled with excite
ment as she hurried beside him. Then he heard riders coming from the west and the east. Gunshots and a herd of horses stampeding in all directions cut them off from escaping. He tried to get her to run for the cedars—in the end, it was him she worried about.
“Go, go. I will find you when this is all over,” she said, and shoved him away. “They won’t hurt me. Then I will escape them. Run, Deuces. Now!”
Sick in heart over abandoning her, he raced for the cover of the cedars and soon gained the ridge. A rifle shot reverberated over the land, and far below, he could see her stepfather with his smoking gun and another man rushing to see about her. No need to look anymore; he knew that she was dead. His regrets over leaving her gnawed at his stomach and brain. But more than that, his loss weighed heavy on his heart.
He would have given his life for her. Such a deed was not to be after that shot.
Deuces realized that what he heard was thundering in the south. The appearance of the tall bank of clouds struck him at first as unfortunate. Then he smiled: Ussen was going to wash away any signs of his retreat. Thunder gods were coming, and he hurried from his place on the ridge. Once again, he would need provisions, the utensils he had left in camp—knife, axe, cup, plate, even his bow and arrows which he spent so many painstaking hours making. Their food supply, blankets, the sheet of canvas—no worry, he could find more.
The pearl-handled pistol was stuck in his waistband, the large skinning knife in a scabbard behind his back. He must decide what he would do next. He stopped and smelled the rain sweeping toward him. A fishy odor filled his nostrils. Unfamiliar with the Gulf ’s smell in the Texas hill country, he was relieved this approaching force would obscure his tracks. Filled with a new determination, he began to circle his way eastward. One more thing to do before he left this land: settle with him over her.
“Going to rain like hell here pretty soon,” Burt shouted to One-Eye. He’d gone back and recovered the mule with their packs while the Apache searched for sign. The approaching storm sounded violent enough. Burt was ready to find shelter.
The scout agreed, taking the reins to his roan.
“We can’t do much more here for now. Let’s find some place of shelter.”
“There’s a small deserted ranch house behind us a mile or so.”
Burt appraised the looming cloud bank. “Let’s ride for it. I don’t like the sound of the thunder in this one.”
The scout agreed and mounted, and they galloped for the place. Even the mule needed little encouragement to lope. Raindrops as big as goose eggs began to pelt them when they drew in sight of the adobe house with a respectable shake roof. They slid their animals to a halt at the front door just as the first pieces of pea-sized hail began to join the raindrops.
“Take him inside,” Burt shouted, waving both scout and roan to go through the doorway.
Thunder rolled violently overhead, and Burt charged inside. The dun and the mule came after him as if goosed by a nearby bolt of lightning. The tumultuous hammering on the roof deafened Burt’s ears. Outside, the day turned to night, and when the next bolt flashed, the accumulating hail covered the ground.
“Barely in time!” he shouted at his man.
One-Eye agreed with a nod. “He will use this storm to get away.”
“Can’t be helped. That hail would sure have hurt us out in the open.”
One-Eye rubbed his hands together. “Plenty good to be here.”
Plenty good. The same notion Burt shared. Despite the time spent, they’d never once got a glimpse of the escapee. Then that stupid Schumaker shot the girl—their only chance to find out anything at all about Deuces. Been a bad day, and the rain only made it damper.
His first case as a full-fledged marshal, and all he could do was wander around through the cedars and live oaks. Maybe his boss in Washington would understand that fugitive Indians were as elusive as ghosts. If they asked why he didn’t organize a posse, he could say he saved the government money. Texas already had hundreds doing that. And he supposed the governor of Arizona expected him to have found this buck, too, by this time.
He was more concerned about Angela’s well-being and the ranch. Instead of three weeks of fruitless efforts, he should’ve had this wrapped up. He’d been set to wire Washington and tell them it was no use—Deuces was gone from the region. But that all changed with the sighting—and the ruthless murder of the girl.
Numb-like, he loosened the girth leathers. The storm showed no signs of abating.Wave after wave assaulted the cedar shingles, and leaks began to drip down on them, forcing them to move over to escape the cold water. He lamented, thinking about the leaky roof back home at the ranch house. He closed his eyes to shut out the rain’s crashing and the rest of the day’s misadventures.
Daybreak, they were in the saddle, but despite One Eye’s efforts, the tracks of Deuces were long gone. Mid-morning, they squatted on their boot heels beside a gurgling, muddy branch to reorganize their plans.
“He’s either going to head west—without her, this land no longer has a hold for him.” Burt spoke his thoughts out loud for the scout. “Or he’s going to want revenge for her death.”
“Come back and kill her stepfather?” the scout asked.
“Yes. He did it once like that. This time, maybe even more so.”
“So we should go see about him—the stepfather?”
Burt’s hard gaze met One-Eye’s, and he nodded. “Chances are good he’ll try.”
“Did they arrest him for shooting her?”
Burt shook his head. “I don’t know. I left right after you did.”
One-Eye shifted his weight to his other leg and nodded. “Maybe that farmer is already home.”
“We better swing that way and check it out.”
“Sometime you tell me,” One-Eye, said and swung around in the saddle.
“What’s that?” Burt asked, mounting the dun.
“Would you have killed him?”
“If you hadn’t been there?”
The scout reined his horse around and listened.
Burt shook his head, then nodded in surrender. “But you might have saved him.”
One-Eye gave him an I-thought-so look, and they rode eastward.
Deuces began to worry his own escape had been too easy. He found her stepfather by himself, busy helping a heifer on its side in the pangs of birth. His sleeves rolled up, Schumaker was on his knees with his arms inside the cow, trying to assist. The anxious heifer raised its head to cry in pain. In an instant, Deuces was behind the unsuspecting man with a hold on his collar and a knife to his throat.
“Huh. Vat you want?” The man’s eyes bugged out.
“Why did you kill her?”
“She vas a slut—she deserved to die—”
“So do you!” Deuces’s blade drew a small trace of blood on the knife’s keen edge at the side of Schumaker’s neck.
“What do you want? Money? A gun? A horse? I give you it!”
Was the white man crazy? He could easily take such things.What he wanted was revenge for him taking her life. For taking her from him—and all the bad things he had done to her.
He bound Schumaker’s arms to his body and forced him to head deeper into the canyon. The day was about over, and he knew that if he did not return to the house, someone would soon come looking for him.
They walked until the moon came up and Deuces felt satisfied that no one would find them. He forced his prisoner to the ground, and, taking the riata he carried, he tied it to the mumbling man’s feet. Satisfied it was secure, he straightened and tossed the tail over a stout live oak branch.
Whatever his prisoner said at this point, he ignored. Schumaker was a big enough man that hoisting him feet-first in the air proved hard work for Deuces. So he made a wrap around a tree trunk, and each time he inched the man’s feet higher, he made certain he did not lose his hitch.
Soon the man grew quiet, and Deuces had him where only his shoulders and head were left touching the earth. The last pulls we
re the hardest, but finally Schumaker’s head swung inches off the ground. Deuces tied the riata off and in the gathering darkness dropped to his hands and knees to measure the width between his scalp and the soil. Maybe the width of one hand off the ground—some of the man’s hair was touching it.
“What do you plan to do to me?” Schumaker asked in a wavering voice.
Deuces never replied; he went off to gather firewood. Soon he had many large cedar knots and limbs in a pile beside his prisoner. He found matches in the man’s vest and struck the first one.
A flare from the blazing boughs lighted the fear in Schumaker’s eyes. He made some painful shouts as the fire grew and the air began to smell of singed hair—Schumaker’s hair.
Squatted nearby, without an expression on his face, Deuces watched the fire leap at the sky, hungry flames that soon had the farmer’s clothes smoldering. He wiggled in the binds behind his back and tried to swing away from the source to escape the hot tongues licking at him.
Time passed slowly. The crescent moon crossed the sky, and the victim babbled incoherently, cried, and shouted curse words at both Deuces and her. Undeterred by the man’s raging threats, screams, or swearing in the night, he fed the fire more fuel until, in the early morning hours, Schumaker was reduced to mumbles behind his charred lips and half-burned-off clothing.
Deuces used a sheet of bark for a shovel and heaped the red-hot ashes all around Schumaker’s head for the last step-to boil his brains. His screams of excruciating pain echoed off the canyon walls. Deuces squatted close by, so the heat of the fire reflected off his own face, and he studied Schumaker’s blackened features set in the ring of glowing cherry embers. He watched until Schumaker screamed no more.
Then he rose and started for home. All his work in this place was completed. Time to return to his own land. He closed his eyes for a moment. His dreams of the two of them sharing paradise in the mother mountains of Mexico was shattered by his bullet. After this day, he would kill and rape whoever he wished, for his life had no meaning without her. He walked in the land of the dead.
Deuces Wild Page 15
